


The Dark After Midnight

by Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:24:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese, Finch and a little late night reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This diverges from canon a bit. It's set before "Many Happy Returns."

The Dark After Midnight 

By Wanderer

 

It’s late. Past midnight, and Reese is tired and aching in several places. He should’ve been in bed already. Instead he’s up puttering around his tiny hotel room. He can’t sleep. 

He was in two fights today. Neither was much of a challenge, but the second one with Steadley was at least satisfying, because he’d gotten to inflict some damage on the cowardly, abusive bastard. It made Finch’s disapproving look afterward worth it.

The first fight, with a little thief named Tyrone, was almost embarrassing. It was more like a tussle, really -- hard to call it a fight when your opponent, though armed, is a skinny, untrained, desperate kid, and it’s over in seconds. Still, Tyrone managed to surprise him a little. He got in a poke with a knife John hadn’t known he was hiding, before John had disposed of it. 

John shakes his head wryly. He’s pretty sure Tyrone, if that was even his real name, isn’t much more than eighteen. Kids these days. He must be getting overly cocky and careless, if a street punk like that could get the drop on him with a knife, even for an instant. 

Luckily, they were evidently in one of the Machine’s blind spots when Tyrone sank it into his arm, because he’d heard Finch asking, “Mr. Reese? What’s going on?” 

Finch sounded alarmed, so John reassured him. “Nothing much.” 

“Just a little difference of opinion,” he’d added, disarming Tyrone with a casual flick of his wrist. He hadn’t mentioned being stabbed, because aside from the embarrassment factor, the stab wound wasn’t bad. Just a scratch. Of course, anything that didn’t puncture a major artery seemed like a scratch to John. 

He’d collared Tyrone with a deliberately nasty smile, and thumped his head casually into the nearest wall to settle him down, and in return for the knifing. 

“Owww!” Tyrone had sagged in John’s grip, cradling his no doubt ringing head with both hands.

John just grinned. “But that’s over. Tyrone here, has decided he’s happy to hand over the wallet he just stole, so I won’t turn him in to the police. Haven’t you, Tyrone?” He’d shaken him a little to make sure the thief was paying attention, and knew John was serious about the threat. John had seen him lift the wallet by bumping into Steadley when he was leaving the little bodega where Steadley had stopped to buy cigarettes.

Tyrone had nodded sourly. “Whatever, man.” But he’d been sufficiently scared to cooperate without further fuss. After Tyrone sullenly handed over the wallet, John let him go. Tyrone stumbled off without another word. 

John waited till Tyrone was a block away, then ducked into the nearest alley and tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt for a bandage, so Finch wouldn’t see blood on his suit later. He tied it tightly over the knife wound, checked the contents of Steadley’s wallet, and grinned. Though Steadley had been paying cash so as not to leave a trail, there was a card for a downtown hotel tucked inside it. John pocketed the card, told Finch he’d found out where Steadley was staying, and headed out to find him. It hadn’t been difficult, and it led to a second and much more satisfying altercation later that afternoon, when Steadley came back to his room to find John waiting for him.

John smiles a bit grimly, remembering it. He thinks maybe he broke Steadley’s nose. He hopes so. Bastards who abuse women deserve what they get. 

But he doesn’t want to think about that, or the woman he saved from him. Not anymore. He knows where that train of thought could lead all too easily. He tries to put her out of his mind, tries to blank it as much as he can. He isn’t very successful, and it makes him uneasy. He wonders what to do next, how to quiet his restlessness. 

He stretches absently and his right arm throbs where he was stabbed. He doesn’t feel like eating, but he’s taken a shower already, cleaned and stitched the wound, watched a little TV, and even turned off most of the lights in his room. Done everything he usually does to wind down at night, but he’s still keyed up. Though his bed isn’t very big or very comfortable either, still, it should be calling his name right now. But tonight… 

Tonight, someone else is.

She’s been calling to him for two days. Ever since he saw the picture of Finch’s newest Number, he’s been waking from sad dreams and feeling the pull of old memories. He’s done his best to ignore their siren song. He’s stayed busy, even talked to Finch more than he usually does while he’s working. But now that he’s in his room where it’s quiet, with nothing to distract him… 

He moves to his window and stares out into the night. Even if it wasn’t pitch black outside, all he can see from his window in daylight are the bricks on the building on the opposite side of the alley. That view isn’t much of a distraction at the best of times.

Right now, he wishes he could see it anyway. Something, anything but unrelieved blackness. He doesn’t want to listen to her call. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows where it can lead… 

Fuck, he thinks wearily, knowing he will anyway.

“John…” It’s a whisper, only a memory, but it compels him. Giving in at last, Reese lets his eyes drift shut, listening for her. And just like that, like stepping off of a cliff, he falls headlong into the past.

“I wish we could stay right here like this forever…”

John does too.

Just for a moment, though he knows how hopeless it is, he tries. Eyes closed, he feels the warmth of Jessica’s hands on his cheeks again, sees the tenderness on her face. He remembers beautiful brown eyes and blonde hair, love and laughter, and days that were all too short. The sweetest days he ever knew. So sweet, he hardly ever lets himself remember them now. 

And on the rare occasions like this that he does, he’s not sure if he does it to be happy again, even if only for a few minutes, or to punish himself. Because recalling the happiness they once had comes with a price. It opens a door to a kind of darkness, a grief and rage so deep they steal his breath, make his chest ache, force hot tears into his usually cold eyes. It’s a razor that never stops slicing, a wound that never stops bleeding. And sometimes he has a hard time controlling what that agony makes him want to do. So maybe he is a masochist. He must be, because he’ll never stop remembering her. 

He can live with that. He’s the man who left her; and for that alone, for that one hideous mistake, he can never be punished enough. Every blow, every cut, every knife and bullet wound he’s taken since he learned of her death, he’s taken for her. They’ll always be for her, until the day one finally ends him.

He feels the burn of tears in his eyes, a familiar choking sensation in his throat. 

Shit. 

This is bad. He knew it would be. 

He opens his eyes and turns away from the window, like cutting off that vision of the past and moving will somehow help him escape it. But he knows better and after a few steps he stops, not knowing where to turn. This has always been the problem: How to make it stop, once he lets the past sink its claws in him. The happiness it brings always seems fleeting, but the pain lingers on after, twisting relentlessly inside him. The past is biting deep tonight, and that’s a dangerous place to be, a path leading straight down into an abyss. 

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

He knows that darkness well. He fell into it once before. He’d be there still, or maybe dead by now, if not for Finch. He remembers what it was like. How tired he’d been, and how strangely good it had felt, to finally let go… 

He finds himself thinking of the brand of cheap whiskey he used to drink.

Uh oh.

Reese forces himself to move. He paces across his room for awhile, back and forth, back and forth, rattled. But his footsteps sound unnaturally loud, like the hard slaps of an opened hand across someone’s face. And this place is so small, he doesn’t have enough space to take many long strides. Still he keeps moving, filled with a strange, dark energy that surges up in him sometimes on nights like this.

Rationally, he knows nothing’s keeping him here. He could leave. Go out, walk the streets like he sometimes does when he can’t sleep. But he knows it won’t help with this brand of restlessness. He feels pent up, caged, imprisoned in his own body. It’s like a huge storm cloud is forming under his skin, pushing him to move, to act, to do -- something. 

It’s that nameless something that’s always worried him.

He doesn’t know what to do about it, when he gets like this. He never did. It’s why he chose liquor as his drug of choice, awhile back. He’s always been half afraid that he might break completely one day. Lose his mind. He’d seen it happen to an agent once; and with the training the CIA gave him and his own innate skill with weapons… If he broke, it wouldn’t be pretty. It'd be so bad, he doesn’t even like to think about it.

He remembers something Cara Stanton once said to him. “We’re not walking in the dark – we are the dark.”

He never forgot that. So after Jessica died he started drinking, rather than doing drugs to dull his pain. Because drugs tended to energize him, make him even more aggressive and dangerous -- but booze just put him to sleep, rendered him harmless. Even when it got bad like this, he could just lock himself away somewhere and keep drinking until he fell asleep, knowing that he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

But he can’t do that anymore, for many reasons. One is that Finch wouldn’t like it. And the mere fact that he’d know John had fallen back on an old weakness is embarrassing enough to make John squirm, every time he thinks about having a taste. Besides, a drunk can’t work the Numbers, and John needs to do that. He likes it, more than any job he’s ever had. 

His new job, and Finch, make using his old crutches impossible. But his problem is still there. His past is still with him. If he were anyone else, sex might help. But he can’t even think about that with someone else, after he’s remembered Jessica. Even if he could, he doesn’t know any woman here well enough to try for that, and he hates the falseness of paying for it. He used to have to play that game himself in the CIA, fucking strangers, pretending that he liked it, and he hates the thought of someone else pretending with him now. Plus, sex is the last thing he’d try when he feels like he’s losing control. He used to get in fights sometimes, when he let his past slide under his skin like this, making him reckless and angry, hungry for something that’s gone forever. But he’s already been in two fights today, and they didn’t help. 

They didn’t help? Huh. 

That stray thought puts the events of the day in a new light. Maybe the fights were his fault. Maybe he wanted them to happen. He must’ve been trying to let off some steam, get rid of some of what was already rattling around inside him, without even knowing it. 

No wonder Finch sounded kinda pissed off at me, after the second one.

He shrugs a little. Smiles ruefully. Oh well. Violence as therapy – well, it wouldn’t be his first time. 

He considers trying it again, sore as he is. But no. Though he knows he could find a fight even this late at night – this is New York after all, there’s no shortage of low-lifes out on the streets -- he’s not willing to risk it. Because again, Finch would know. He saw him earlier this evening, and despite the annoyed look Finch gave him when he saw his cuts and bruises, Reese knows he was worried. He wouldn’t be surprised if Finch memorized every bruise. Every one not hidden by his clothes, anyway. Finch had actually twitched a little, lifted his hand like he wanted to patch him up, and then let it drop again with a grimace, as if he’d known Reese wouldn’t let him. 

Finch had been right about that. None of his wounds had been serious enough to even waste a band aid on. Well, none of them except the knife wound, but he’d managed to keep that one a secret from Harold. 

Reese smiles a little, a softer, fonder smile, remembering that. He tries to make sure Finch doesn’t find out about stuff like that if he can, because Finch has this funny tendency to fuss over him now. He’s not sure if it’s because he almost died after Snow’s sniper shot him, or just part of the kindness Finch’s prickly manner can’t quite hide. Whatever the reason, it warms him when he thinks of it, even though it amuses him, too. But he knows if he shows up with new bruises tomorrow, Finch will raise an eyebrow and ask arch, pointed questions he won’t want to answer. He may even try to slap band aids on him, or ask him to take off his coat so he can check him out. Finch can be --

Finch.

Just like that, like a candle’s been lit in his darkness, Reese knows what to do. 

That doesn’t mean he does it. He fights it for a while, this odd urge to make contact with his billionaire boss in the middle of the night. Finch won’t thank him for it, he’s sure. In fact, he’ll probably tell him to piss off. Politely, of course. 

Reese isn’t happy about the idea himself. He’s not used to depending on anyone, trusting anyone… But he trusts Finch. Somehow, Finch has become more than just an employer. He’s his friend. Finch proved that when he came for John the night he got shot, despite the danger, and the fact that John had warned him not to. John doesn’t have a better definition for friendship than that: risking your neck to save someone. Finch had gone up against Mark Snow and his fucking CIA snipers to save John’s ass that night, and he’d done it all by himself. Jesus. It gives him the shivers just thinking about it, even now. How close Finch came… Harold may be small and slight, injured and untrained, but he has balls of steel all the same. John thinks he just may be the bravest man he’s ever known.

More than that, Finch has a heart. John doesn’t let himself think about his recovery from those gunshot wounds very often. But the one thing that sticks out in his mind about his drugged haze immediately afterwards, is that every time he’d surfaced, doped and uneasy, unsure of where he was, he’d been reassured by two unprecedented things. The feeling of a warm, much smaller hand holding his, and the sound of Harold’s voice, soothing him. It’s all right. You’re safe now, John. Go to sleep. Finch had sat by his bed for god only knew how long, watching over him. Protecting him. 

Finch had held his hand. Distant, prickly Harold, who didn’t like to be touched, had let his guard down. Set aside his formidable barriers and reached out to him in every way he could, when John had needed it most. And though he’s pretty sure Harold hopes he was too drugged to even register the hand-holding thing, let alone remember it, John’s holding onto that memory as tightly as he did to Finch’s hand. As tightly as he does to his memories of Jessica. He only has one friend now, and Finch has become precious to him. He thinks Finch would’ve saved her, if he could. He knows damn well that Finch saved him. Twice now, for whatever that’s worth. Though he’s wished a hundred times, a thousand, that Finch could’ve saved her instead.

Jessica…

Reese grits his teeth so hard his whole jaw aches. Thinking about that is useless, and he knows it. He wishes he could stop. It’s been so long, he tells himself harshly. It shouldn’t hurt this much anymore. I should be stronger than this.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda. It’s all just noise. 

Finch needs me, he tells himself, trying again, even more desperately. So do all of his Numbers…

Sometimes that works.

Not tonight.

He thinks about that cheap whiskey again. For a minute, hunger shivers through him, so sharp he can almost taste the burn of the booze on his tongue. 

He slams a fist down on the old tiled countertop in his kitchen. Hits it so hard that everything in his cupboards rattles and quakes.

It doesn’t help.

Fuck.

He gives in and heads desperately for the nightstand by his bed, where he left his earpiece earlier. He turns it on and jams it back into his ear, fuming at himself. This is crazy, it’s nuts, and he knows it. He’s acting like some goddamn teenage girl. Besides, even Finch has probably gone to bed by now. Still, he can’t make himself stop. The darkness is rising inside him, and without his old coping methods to fall back on, there’s no telling what he might do.

“Finch?” he almost gasps.

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

Reese lets out a breath.

Finch sounds awake, alert, like it’s noon instead of way past midnight. His slightly nasal tones wash over Reese like a benediction. He’s so relieved he closes his eyes, speechless with it. Even though he wonders how Finch can function as well as he does on so little sleep, he’s incredibly, selfishly glad that he’s awake, and there to talk to. The jagged, mounting pressure inside him eases a fraction, just hearing him. And he marvels a little, that the mere sound of someone’s voice can anchor him, start to settle him down, when he feels like this. 

“Is there something you wanted?” By all rights, Finch should sound impatient, annoyed that John’s interrupting him at 2:35 in the a.m. But all John hears in his voice is a hint of something that might be worry, or even concern. For him. It still feels odd to him, almost amazing, that there’s someone in the world who cares about him. But it feels good, too; and he’s grateful. 

Still, now that he’s done it, broken and called Finch, he doesn’t have a clue what to say. He finally manages to croak, “No. No, I …” 

Fuck. This is ridiculous. What the hell was he thinking? He can’t spill his guts to Finch. For one thing, he doesn’t know how to describe how he feels. When he was with the CIA, he was taught that it was better not to have feelings. They made you vulnerable. Weak. So even if he could find some way to loosen his tongue, it’d be a mistake to tell Finch about how many sleepless nights he has, or how he still dreams of her when he does sleep. How often the pit opens under his feet without warning. Or how much it scares him, that sometimes he still wants to fall back into it.

Finch would worry. Or worse, friend or not, he might freak out. Might decide John’s a total whack-job who can’t be trusted to work his Numbers. If Harold ever learns what goes on in John’s head sometimes, he might just fire his ass. And John wouldn’t really blame him. 

After a minute, he gives up on the idea of talking about the state he’s in. “You should go home, Finch,” he says instead, hoping Finch will hear the things he can’t say in his voice, too. “It’s late.”

“By some people’s standards, perhaps.” 

Reese smiles a little at that, a bit more of the awful tension easing out of him at Finch’s dry sense of humor. He feels a rush of warmth, all out of proportion to this odd little conversation. 

“But I’m sure you didn’t call just to tell me to get some sleep, Mr. Reese,” Finch prompts.

Despite the situation, Finch sounds so prim and proper, Reese is amused. Late as it is, he suspects that Finch is probably still sitting at his computer in his customary neat, expensive three piece suit. He doubts he’s even loosened his silk tie. He feels a rush of affection, and it occurs to him that even though he ought to keep his mouth shut, there’s no reason Finch has to. “Okay then. Let’s talk. What’re you doing, Harold?” he teases.

There’s a long pause. Reese can’t decipher it.

Did hearing Reese use his first name really surprise Finch that much? Or did Harold hear more in his voice, earlier, than he’d meant him to? Reese almost holds his breath, listening.

Finally, Finch says quietly, “I’ve been reading, actually.”

He sounds so calm, Reese feels another rush of relief. Sometimes Finch gets pissed off when he teases him. Even that would be better, though, than Finch thinking he’s crazy. He never wants Finch to suspect that sometimes, he’s far from being the strong, silent, invulnerable ninja-assassin that Finch seems to think he is, 24/7. That Finch depends on him to be, really. 

For a second, he’s so busy being relieved that Finch doesn’t think he’s nuts, he almost doesn’t realize what Finch just said. Then it hits him: I’ve been reading… 

Wow. Finch never tells him what he’s up to, unless it has to do with working the Numbers. Maybe he’s really tired too, because for him, that little bit of honesty is almost revelatory.

“Reading what?” John can’t help asking. He knows he’s pushing it, but it’s his nature. Give him an inch, and he’ll take five miles.

There’s another brief pause. John figures Finch is probably trying to think of a way to avoid a direct answer. He must think John’s prying again, as if the name of the book he’s reading might tell John something vital about him. He’s so fanatical about his privacy that giving Reese even that much information probably seems like divulging a state secret to him.

“Dickens,” Finch says finally. Then, much to John’s surprise, he adds, “’Great Expectations.’” 

John grins in pure surprise and delight. He can hardly believe Harold actually answered his question. Coming from Finch, that’s almost a declaration that they’re BFF’s. He opens his mouth to say so, but catches himself just in time. Teasing Harold is so much fun, it’s nearly impossible for John to resist. It’s almost as much fun as following him, to try and learn his secrets. But Finch doesn’t enjoy his jokes that much. John knows his sense of humor makes him uncomfortable, almost as uncomfortable as his prying and surveillance does. And if John ever wants his little bird to open up to him, it won’t do to antagonize Harold when he’s trying to. Even if it’s only about something as innocuous as a book.

He wants Finch to keep talking, wants it more than he can say. Hell, it seems he needs it, to get him through the night. Or at least enough of it so that he can make it through till morning without exploding. 

So he settles for just saying, “Hmm. I’ve never read that one.” That isn’t true, but it’s a safe enough lie, because even Finch can’t possibly know that. “What’s it about?”

He half expects Finch to reprimand him, or even disconnect them after some tart remark about the futility of trying to ferret out his secrets. Instead, Finch surprises him yet again.

“It’s about a young man trying to make his way in the world.”

“Hmm. Just like us,” John jokes. 

“Well, not exactly like us,” Finch says wryly. “Pip never built a vast computer system with which to surveil all his neighbors; nor does he wander about rural England armed to the teeth and blowing things up.”

“Yeah, but other than that, you gotta admit…” John insists, trying hard not to laugh.

“Oh yes. Other than that, Pip’s resemblance to us is positively uncanny, Mr. Reese.”

At that bit of sarcasm, John laughs out loud. He can’t help it. Finch so seldom plays along with him; but that’s what he’s doing now. Playing, and being generous by divulging what he no doubt considers personal information. He has no idea why Finch is in such a giving mood tonight, but he loves it. It feels like candy, the little bits of himself that Finch sometimes lets him have, lets him see. First Eggs Benedict, and now this. Already, the wildness surging through his veins has begun to quiet, ebbing away little by little at the sound of Finch’s calm voice. He sits down on his bed, feeling better. The terrible buzzing under his skin fades away even more as he thinks fondly of Harold sitting at his desk in the quiet of the library while they talk, alone in a little pool of light with his book.

He’s as alone as I am, he thinks suddenly. And just like that, all thoughts of teasing Harold vanish. Weariness washes through him suddenly, further dissipating the darkness that almost took hold. 

“I should probably let you go,” he says reluctantly. It’s the last thing he really wants to do, but he doesn’t want to be selfish, and it’s hours past midnight. Finch must be worn out, too.

Finch gets quiet for a minute. Finally, he says carefully, “I thought perhaps you might’ve called because you were having trouble sleeping, too.”

Tired as he is, John catches that “too”. Finch just told him he’s reading because he can’t sleep. Will wonders never cease. He can’t imagine what he’s done, to deserve such a talkative Finch. Sure, he saved another Number today, but he’s done that many times before, and never gotten this kind of response from his boss. But Harold seems to want to keep the conversation going, seems to want to talk to him as much as John needs that. 

He flounders for a second, searching for the right way to reply. Honesty is almost a forgotten thing for him; and then there’s his pride. Telling Finch that he hasn’t been sleeping would make him sound weak. Then he decides it’s okay, just this once, since Finch won’t have any way of knowing how often it happens. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I was.”

“Well…” Oddly, Finch sounds almost shy. “It may sound a little strange, but…it sometimes helps me get to sleep if I read aloud for a bit first. Would you mind…?”

John blinks. He’s so stunned, he blurts out, “You wanna read me a bedtime story, Finch?” 

Oh shit. He can almost see Finch glaring at him, all the way across town. He closes his eyes, wincing at his own stupidity. Way to go, John. 

“You’re right. I apologize. No doubt that was a ridiculous idea.” Finch’s voice is suddenly frosty. “Good night, Mr. –”

“No! No, wait, Finch! Don’t hang up,” he says, just as hastily. He freezes, listening hard to find out what Finch will do. 

Finch doesn’t cut him off, but he doesn’t answer, either. He just sighs, a huffy sort of sound, like he’s still considering taking his earpiece out. Not that John would blame him. He’s the one who called Finch at a god-awful hour, after all; and then tried to keep him talking. He’s the one afraid of the bogeyman in his closet, or under his skin as the case may be. Embarrassing though it is, John’s evidently the one who wants, or needs, the equivalent of a goddamn bedtime story. A voice in his ear in the middle of the night, so he can keep it together. So who the hell is he to criticize if Finch wants to read him one?

“Sorry. You just caught me off guard, that’s all. It’s okay if you wanna read a bit, I don’t mind,” he rasps, thinking how transparent that is. You don’t mind? Like you’re doing him a favor, here? Who d’you think you’re kidding?

Not Finch, certainly. He says drily, “You’re sure, Mr. Reese? I wouldn’t want to impose…”

John grins. That’s Finch saying he’s a jerk -- a jerk who he’s seen right through, by the way -- but that he’s forgiven him anyway. Just so long as he doesn’t screw up again, that is. “Yeah. I’m sure.” 

John shuts up then, taking a second to check himself out. The black door inside of him has closed, finally. The terrible pressure urging him to move, to get out, to do something before he explodes, is gone. He just feels sore and tired and like he might just be able to sleep, at last. He lies down on his back on his bed, settles his head on his pillow, and tries not to sigh with the immensity of his relief. 

“Go ahead. Read to me as much as you want, Finch,” he smiles, letting some of the gratitude and affection he feels actually show in his voice. “I can take it.”

He imagines Harold smiling back as he bends his head over his book again. 

“Very well, Mr. Reese. As you wish…” Finch clears his throat a little self-consciously, and then begins to read. 

“The June weather was delicious. The sky was blue, the larks were soaring high over the green corn, and I thought all that countryside more beautiful and peaceful by far than I had ever known it to be yet.”

John closes his eyes, imagining blue skies and birds soaring. Peace and green fields. He slows his breathing and starts to breathe more deeply, his body finally starting to relax.

“Many pleasant pictures of the life that I would lead there, and of the change for the better that would come over my character when I had a guiding spirit at my side whose simple faith and clear home-wisdom I had proved, beguiled my way. They awakened a tender emotion in me; for my heart was softened by my return, and such a change had come to pass, that I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot from distant travel, and whose wanderings had lasted many years... “

Reese lets the words wash over him. Funny, but it almost feels like Finch is describing him. 

He feels oddly peaceful, listening to Finch read Dickens. 

He suddenly realizes, it’s the first time he ever made the past stop haunting him without drinking or fighting someone. Well, Finch did, anyway.

Finch is amazing. Someday, I’ll have to tell him that.

For the first time in a long while, he feels a flicker of hope. 

He closes his heavy eyelids, smiling.

 

********************************************************************************

Some fifteen minutes later, in a seemingly abandoned library miles away, Harold Finch stops reading aloud and tilts his head, listening. “Mr. Reese?” he asks softly.

The only reply he gets is some deep, even breathing. Reese has evidently fallen asleep with his earpiece still tucked away in his ear. 

Good. Finch smiles to himself, a small, secret, pleased little smile. He hadn’t told Reese the truth earlier, when he’d asked what Dickens’ book was about. Or rather, he’d given him a misleadingly simplistic answer. The plot of ‘Great Expectations’ certainly concerned a young man’s progress; but the meaning of the tale, and the reason Finch had chosen to read it, were quite different. 

‘Great Expectations’ was a story about love, loss and the meaning and importance of friendship. All themes which Finch had been thinking a lot about lately – because of Mr. Reese.

He’d thought he knew everything about John Reese, before he’d hired him. He’d been wrong.

As it turned out, he’d known a lot of facts, but they hadn’t added up to the man himself. Reese was far different than he’d expected him to be, given his background and training. And Harold had never expected, in his wildest dreams, that he could become friends with an ex-CIA assassin. Yet somehow, he had.

So he’d known that Reese was agitated today. He knows Reese well enough to recognize the signs now. He’d been acting rashly, and Finch had been a bit worried. Those fights, and the dark look that passed across Reese’s face just before he’d left the library…

“You saved her, Mr. Reese,” he’d said. It was true, but it hadn’t seemed to cheer Reese up at all. A dark mood seemed to have been hovering over Reese since he’d checked in the day before, when Finch had called him about their new Number. “Thank you.” 

Reese had just shrugged, his gaze somber, his face unreadable, and left the library without a word.

Finch had watched him go sadly, not knowing what to say. How do you tell a strong, stoic former assassin you know he's haunted by the ghost of the one woman who truly mattered to him, the one he failed to save?

Reese is far from healed yet. A sad fact, but something Finch has already observed. He’d hoped that working the Numbers would’ve done so by now, but maybe Reese just needs more time. It hasn’t been that long, after all.

Working with him, helping to save the Numbers his Machine spits out, has been beneficial to Mr. Reese, however. The hollow-eyed, numb, ghostlike scarecrow of a man he’d met by the river months ago has come a long way. That John Reese was filthy, gaunt and bearded, his voice ragged with disuse, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. 

But after a few months of sobriety and working the Numbers, Reese is now a sleek, handsome, confident, seemingly fearless operative with a silky voice, lethal fists, and an alarming fondness for knee-capping, over-sized weapons and explosives. Finch knows that such a transformation speaks volumes about Reese’s toughness and self-sufficiency. 

Reese has also exhibited an annoying tendency to pry into Finch’s life, and made various attempts, both in person and through Det. Fusco, to surveil him. But that wasn’t entirely unexpected. Finch hired Reese for his skills as a spy, after all. It would’ve been disingenuous of him to assume Reese wouldn’t use them to try to level the balance of power between them, and to satisfy his curiosity. It’s been interesting, watching Reese try. 

But what’s surprised Finch the most about Mr. Reese is his sense of humor. 

He hadn’t expected that, after reading Reese’s files. All of his photos, both from the Army and the CIA, had showed a handsome but somber-looking man. Finch never imagined that a big, steely-eyed former assassin could be so playful, or delight in teasing him as much as Reese does. And while it often makes him uncomfortable, Finch secretly wouldn’t trade Reese’s jokes for anything. They’re sure signs of both affection (something else Finch never expected from Reese) and the return of his humanity.

Finch was justifiably wary of Reese at first. Reese had attacked him once, after all; and even in his weakened condition, Reese's strength and speed had been formidable, and frightening. But Finch had been willing to overlook it, since he’d provoked Reese into reacting. Besides, when he’d first contacted him, John had been shattered. Not merely badly damaged, but broken, and trying to drink himself to death. He knows that John was tortured and betrayed during his tenure with the CIA, that he feels he abandoned the woman he loved when he joined them, and that she was killed because of that. 

Simply put, John Reese has been through hell. Finch didn’t expect him to heal overnight. What bothers him is that despite John’s seemingly good recovery on many fronts, time doesn’t seem to be healing the wound caused by Jessica’s death at all. John never speaks of her, and his silence, coupled with the way he sometimes reacts to women in similar situations of domestic violence, worries Finch.

He’s admitted, if only reluctantly to himself, that Reese is more than merely his employee now, more than just someone he’s responsible for. John Reese is his friend; and he has a capacity for goodness that’s reflected in his treatment of the Numbers. He’s seen John be amazingly gentle and compassionate with some of the people they’ve helped. He’s been more loyal and protective towards Detective Carter than Finch ever expected, too. Finch has yet to decide if that's a good or bad thing. While he admires Detective Carter and understands the fondness the CIA instilled in Reese for "assets", involving the police in their work seems problematic to Finch at best -- for both sides.

John Reese has surprised him in so many ways. He thinks wryly that they’ve probably all surprised each other, everyone who's been even tangentially involved with his Numbers. He never expected to feel warmth or affection for Reese, either, but he does. So much that he’s risked his life for John, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He knows Reese thinks of himself as some sort of monster; but Finch thinks he’s an extraordinary man who’s only beginning to find himself again, and to live up to his potential. Still, he’s starting to wonder if perhaps he’s taken John’s recovery too much for granted, and if there’s anything more he can do to help him. 

He was surprised when Reese checked in so late tonight, but not surprised that he hadn’t been sleeping. He suspects that Reese still passes a lot of sleepless nights, though of course he’ll never admit that, John’s stoicism being of the extreme sort. Finch feels a bit guilty about that, because he’s slept much more soundly since he hired John Reese, and Reese began helping him save his Numbers. 

He tried to repay that debt a little when Reese called just now, by reading to him. He’s glad that despite Reese’s initial skepticism, he still allowed it. And since it took a rather short time to send him off to sleep, John evidently found it as relaxing as he’d hoped, as well. 

It wasn’t exactly a hardship for Harold, either. He’s wished he had someone to read aloud to for some time. He loves books, and now that Grace believes he’s dead, he’s been denied the pleasure of sharing them – until tonight. Besides, though he’d never admit it even under torture, it makes him feel less lonely, having Reese to talk to. 

But his primary motive for offering to read aloud hadn’t been selfish. He’d done it for Reese. He’d sounded… well, almost desperate when he’d suddenly checked in. His voice, usually a silken whisper, had been louder than usual in Harold’s ear, and the ragged way he’d said, “Finch?” had raised every hair on the back of his neck. It’d sounded so much like a call for help that it alarmed him. Reese never says much, but he hasn’t sounded that rough since that awful day he called from the parking garage where he’d been shot. 

Finch sighs to himself. He’d like to pretend that he has no idea why Reese called tonight, or what caused him to reach out in such an uncharacteristic way, but that’s not true. Their latest Number, Ann Mayhew, the woman Reese had just saved. As soon as Finch had seen her picture, he’d been afraid that something like this might happen. Ann is attractive, with long blonde hair, brown eyes, and a violent ex-boyfriend. He’d worried that she’d remind Reese of Jessica. 

But with an abusive ex-boyfriend trailing her, she’d been in dire need of help; and Reese has sometimes dealt with cases like hers before, without losing his composure unduly. At times though, on other such cases, he’s overreacted. In Finch’s opinion, Reese sometimes empathizes too much with some of the victims of domestic abuse, which can lead him to rash actions and/or extreme violence. It’s troubling, but Finch hasn’t been able to see a clear pattern in his behavior. He has no way of knowing which case will serve as a trigger for Reese, and which won’t; and he can’t start abandoning these women to their fate, just because they remind Reese of Jessica. 

It still bothers Finch, though, that Reese never told him how he’d dealt with Dr. Tillman’s sister’s rapist, Andrew Benton. When he’d pressed him for details about it afterward, Reese had just said, “I guess you’ll just have to trust that I handled him, Harold, ” with an edge in his voice that had warned Finch not to push him any further.

He does trust John Reese, but he knows his limits, too. Still, they have an important job to do; and when Miss Mayhew’s Number came up, Finch had been pressed for time, as usual. So he’d decided to risk letting Reese help him with her case, and to watch him very closely while they did.

To his relief, they saved Miss Mayhew, though it’d taken Reese a lot of running about and two violent altercations in one day, in order to accomplish it. With John, altercations aren’t unusual. What bothers Finch is his suspicion that John might’ve sought them out, rather than trying to find other ways to handle the matter. He’d certainly seemed to take an unholy amount of pleasure in beating Tom Steadley, Ann Mayhew’s abuser, when the man had attacked him. 

Still, it’s hard to argue with success. Thanks to Mr. Reese, Ann Mayhew is safe and Steadley is now safely in the hands of Detective Carter, being booked and facing trial and likely prison time. Miss Mayhew herself was very grateful. He’d heard her thank Mr. Reese fervently. He also heard her say that as soon as her testimony in Steadley’s case is over with, she’s planning to move away. Hopefully, it will be the last time she has to move because of Tom Steadley. Still, Finch thinks that’s very sensible on her part. 

But mostly, he’s just glad it’s over, and that Reese didn’t wind up in the hands of the police, despite his over-enthusiastic pummeling of Miss Mayhew’s now battered ex-boyfriend.

He’s also glad that Reese is finally getting some much-deserved rest. And pleased that he’s been able to do at least that much for the man who daily risks his life for him, and for his Numbers.

Finch makes a couple of mental notes to himself, all the same. One: to leave Mr. Reese out of the next case that comes up involving a young woman entangled in domestic violence . And two: to see about getting Reese a better place to live than the cheap hotel rooms Reese seems to think are suitable. If he isn’t sleeping, perhaps what he needs is a larger apartment with a more comfortable bed. The sooner the better.

Finch smiles a little to himself, thinking of that. Hmm… isn’t Mr. Reese’s birthday coming up soon?

That might be the perfect occasion to surprise him…

For a moment, he looks off into space, thinking of Reese. Wondering if such a gift might make him happy. He’s been through so much, and he’s done such amazing work for him, Finch would give a great deal to make that happen. He’s seen Reese at his worst. He would very much like to see him get better. 

His smile fades away as he remembers the complete, utter look of devastation on Reese’s face when he’d stumbled past him at that hospital in New Rochelle, after John learned of Jessica’s death. Finch hopes never to see that look on his face again.

Perhaps it’s not so surprising that Reese never speaks of Jessica, after all. Much though Finch loves words, perhaps to Reese, they seem inadequate.

He thinks of Grace then, with a familiar pang of his own. 

When he takes his glasses off to wipe at his eyes, he tells himself they’re just watering because he’s had a long and very busy day.

After a few moments, he puts them back on and bends his head, remembering something. Perhaps mere words are not so inadequate, after all… He turns to the last page of ’Great Expectations’. And though he knows Reese is already sleeping – or maybe because of that -- he reads the last paragraph out loud, very softly.

“I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.”

Finch sighs sadly to himself. “Good night, Mr. Reese. Sweet dreams,” he whispers, meaning it.

Good night Grace, my love, he adds wistfully in his head.

Then he removes his earpiece, puts the book down, turns off the lamp and heads for his own lonely bed.


End file.
